


Tempest

by JestersTear



Series: Broken and Rebuilt [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Emotional Manipulation, Angst, Bisexual Cullen, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Emotional Hurt, Flirting, Hurt, Longing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 05:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16056293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JestersTear/pseuds/JestersTear
Summary: After what happened with Elisabeth, Cullen never expected to fall in love again. Now that he has, surely he can at least indulge in a little harmless flirting... Right?Sequel to Plaything, and makes more sense when that has been read before.





	Tempest

Oddly enough falling in love again doesn’t hurt.

For all that Elisabeth was all he’d ever wanted, for all that he would have given anything to have her back, to be man enough to please her, it doesn’t hurt.

When she finally loses her patience with his ineptitude - loses her _pity_ for him, even - the longing is inescapable. Everything he sees is a reminder of her. The first few months without her, when even the mere glimpse of her crushes him almost as much as not seeing her, are the Void itself. Whenever she looks at him it’s with… If indifference could be scathing, then that’s what it is, as contradictory as it seems. He means nothing to her but she still finds it in her to despise him.

And he doesn’t think he’ll ever be free of the desire to throw himself at her feet and beg for whatever scraps she can spare.

Then, one day, that desire is gone.

He can’t pinpoint when it happens, precisely, only that there is a curious emptiness in him where he used to harbour love. There is still the overbearing sadness, of course, of knowing he will never be fit to be with someone; that, no matter how hard he tries, he is unable to please another person; that he’s not like other men; that he’s _lesser_. But love? That’s completely gone.

Half a year goes by he as he takes advantage of every minute of his newfound freedom. He may not be fit for romance, but he can cultivate his friendships. He sits with his men in the tavern; he spars with Cassandra and the Bull; he is the victim of Sera’s pranks and takes it in stride; he plays chess with Dorian.

He plays _a lot_ of chess with Dorian.

He thought it would never happen again, that even that part of him was as broken as the part that should have learned how to pleasure a partner, but one day there it is.

Dorian is smiling in mock outrage, asking if Cullen is sassing him, and it hits him that if he were a normal man he’d get up and kiss the Tevinter mage.

And it doesn’t hurt. Dorian doesn’t know - will _never_ know - and so it’s safe for Cullen to indulge in daydreams even while appearing confident. It’s safe for Cullen to flirt back, to genuinely laugh, to bask in Dorian’s presence, because the man doesn’t know how fundamentally flawed Cullen is.

He once thought that the greatest kindness that Elisabeth had ever done him was to bring another man into their bed, to give Cullen a chance to keep her, but it turns out that not sharing the truth of his deficiency with Skyhold at large was a greater kindness still.

Only Blackwall, Maker keep his soul, was privy to that knowledge, as far as Cullen knew.

Blackwall. He hadn’t much cared for the man, especially not when jealously reared its head, but that Elisabeth left him to die still leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

He often wonders why he has been allowed a chance of redemption if others have to pay their dues upon discovery.

* * *

The already frequent chess matches become a daily event. Provided Dorian is in Skyhold, Cullen saves an entire hour just after the lunch bell for the pleasure of the mage’s company.

Cullen’s world is always warmer in the afternoons for it.

It’s after one such match, a memorable one, with Dorian’s good-natured laugh at being caught red-handed trying to pocket a pawn still ringing in his ears that he touches himself for the first time in almost a year.

He comes with Dorian’s face in his mind.

Elisabeth showed him that he didn’t deserve this, not when he couldn’t do the same for her, but he’s not _with_ her anymore and, for the first time, he feels like he’s allowed this pleasure despite his incompetence.

There’s no one by his side who he can fail; there never will be, not with his handicap. He will not subject so much as a paid whore to his graceless pawing, but surely even men such as himself merit at least the comfort of their own hand?

His orgasm loses some of its glow with this train of thought; the ensuing sadness accompanies him the rest of the day.

* * *

There’s a decided pang when he realises that, if circumstances were different, he could have shared the mage’s bed - Dorian flirts with everyone, which should have made it safe, and yet Cullen cannot deny that he thinks the Tevinter would be amenable to a few nights of mutual pleasure. If only it were mutual.

It ought to be soothing, that realisation, but it bruises something deep in Cullen’s core instead, to know he might have had a chance. He tries to lock that feeling away, to be able to enjoy Dorian’s company to the fullest, but tendrils of it always sneak past their confinement to twist around his heart. Being around Dorian suddenly aches, but not seeing him would have been undoubtedly worse.

On occasion he’ll feel the reckless impulse to make a move, certain, in those moments, that the feel of Dorian’s lips on his, of Dorian’s skin against his own, would be worth anything. His rational side is quick to point out that none of those things would be worth losing Dorian’s respect after the inevitable discovery of how incapable Cullen is to give pleasure to another person.

He carries on as if nothing is amiss.

* * *

The weather that day has been a miserable affair for Dorian, Cullen can tell. It started out undecided between snow and rain, a light drizzle giving way to sleet; not half a bell after it abates enough for them to deem it safe for a match it reverses course and a veritable deluge starts pouring from the skies. Even under the furry surcoat he always wears Cullen is soaked through to the bone in minutes, the water finding the chinks in his armour with far more precision than an enemy ever could; Dorian’s tastefully exposed skin never has a chance.

They make a run for it, their chess match abandoned, the strength of the rain knocking pieces from their positions and ensuring it won’t be able to be completed at a latter date - not that Cullen doesn’t remember exactly where each piece was, but Dorian is a terrible cheat -, and end up in his tower, laughing from their brief run. Cullen locks the doors out of habit, lights a fire and doesn’t think to question it when Dorian helps him out of his armour - they are, after all, soaked, and it is only a kindness of the Tevinter mage, to try and help Cullen to be warm and dry faster.

He goes up to his loft to change out of his wet clothes and grab a warm blanket for Dorian to put over his shoulders only to notice, in dismay, that he left his chest open that day and rain has soaked through his spare bedding. It’s pouring everywhere inside the loft - a section of his roof collapsed under the weight of the rain, enlarging the preexisting hole - except for a small corner where the wind doesn’t seem to propel it to. The roar of the water pounding the floorboards drowns out everything else, and in the middle of his frantic attempts to shove everything that is still moderately dry in that single corner - haphazardly, and shoving bits of ceiling in the process -, he again doesn’t find a moment to think it may be strange that Dorian’s head surfaces through his trap door.

“ _Kaffas_ , Commander,” the mage shouts, trying to make himself be heard through the deafening noise, “there’s a rather large hole on your roof!”

Dorian doesn’t usually do anything so pedestrian as stating the obvious, and Cullen can’t help but laugh at the dismay in the mage’s voice even as he shouts back, “I’m aware of it, thank you.”

"All this time we’ve been in Skyhold, you haven’t thought to have it fixed or ask for different quarters?

“I…” _Cannot bear to wake in the dark_. _Would be quivering in terror, soiling myself as a two year old if I woke up and had nothing to immediately remind me that I’m free_. _Am pathetic. Useless. Worthless._ “like to see the sky,” he settles for, defeated. He doesn’t even really notice that he’s ceased his attempts to salvage whatever is left of his dry possessions and is just standing there, getting even more soaked in the unforgiving rain. He wishes Dorian would simply turn and leave, but it would be unkind of him to abandon the other man to inclement weather for the crime of witnessing Cullen’s failings.

“Tsk. Southerners,” Dorian interjects in mock disgust, voluntarily putting himself in the path of the rain, “always overlooking the obvious solution.” And, without a second thought - likely without even a first, as he seems to be acting on instinct - the mage casts a barrier on the hole in Cullen’s roof.

Cullen holds his breath, waiting for it to hit him. The panic, the memories of Kinloch Hold, the nausea, the overwhelming feeling of helplessness and horror. It doesn’t come. Not in the sense of something building up to hit him all the stronger later, but in the sense of something that dissipates harmlessly.

He’s staring at Dorian’s barrier, mouth agape, hardly noticing that the rain has stopped hitting him in the sudden stillness of his loft, and all he can think is that this particular mage’s barrier feels safe. Warm. Comforting even. A work of art, a protective clear dome that he wouldn’t even be able to tell is there by looking if not for the concentric splashes of water on it, but that soothes his other senses - nothing like the vile purplish walls of his magical cage.

It’s after a minute or two of this that he realises that, while the barrier is responsible for the feelings of safety and comfort, it has nothing to do with warmth. That is also Dorian’s doing, and Cullen looks in awe as, even without a staff to channel it, the Tevinter mage is casting pure warmth from his hands, drying up Cullen’s spare bedding in minutes. The air smells of rain and steam, turning the loft into an impromptu sauna

No mage ever did this in the Circle, the Chantry blind to the obvious benefits of allowing the mages to be creative with their talents, yet for Dorian it seems perfectly natural, an extension of himself. If this isn’t the very definition of magic serving man, Cullen doesn’t know what is. He wishes he could have seen it like this before, in Kirkwall, instead of fearing every paper-cut mage.

He’s too engrossed in his musings to realise what the mage plans to do when Dorian turns to Cullen and does the same to his hair and the clothes still on his body, hands never touching but less than an inch away.

Cullen stills in the thickening air; he isn’t certain if he’ll be able to remember how breathing works after this.

Dorian is well inside Cullen’s sphere of personal space, half lidded gray eyes gazing apprasingly into his, when he asks, voice lowered in invitation, “There, Commander. All better?”

Cullen’s lips part halfway through, a shuddering breath providing him with a little air at last, and he nods, not trusting his voice to reply. Even he is not that oblivious - Dorian would willingly bed him right now, if Cullen made a move.

And, _oh_ , how he wishes he were man enough for that.

Dorian leans fractionally closer, while Cullen still seems to be rooted to the spot. The left corner of the mage’s lip curls upwards, as if he doesn’t know whether he’d prefer to kiss Cullen or smile.

“Are you quite certain that there is nothing else I could do to help you feel better, Cullen?”

 _Cullen._ Dorian never says his name, not even casually, let alone in this impossibly intimate tone. Cullen tries to form a reply, at least the letter I to begin with, but all he’s capable of is another half-sucked breath. Maybe he could– but no, he’d ruin it. Or perhaps if he– no, at best Dorian would pity him in the end. If only–

It’s suddenly too much. Cullen breaks eye contact and steps back, disgust at himself curdling in his gut. He needs to say something, anything, to salvage what little he can of his friendship with the mage. He summons his strength and steps into the role of Commander once more, the only one that allows him to feel even marginally in control of his life.

“No. Thank you for your assistance, that will be all.”

 _That will be all_? What kind of an imbecile is he, to dismiss the Tevinter mage as if he were a fresh faced courier, and in the middle of a storm, no less? Dorian’s face closes off, grey eyes rivalling the tempest.

“I don’t enjoy being toyed with, Commander. First you’re hot, then you’re cold. If this isn’t leading anywhere just say so. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

Cullen’s Commander persona holds.

“This isn’t leading anywhere. I apologise if I have mislead you.”

_I apologise for all the flirting, the laughter, the innuendo. I apologise for the looks and the times when my hand lingered when I clapped your arm. I apologise for every single time that you made me feel more human when I was undeserving of it. I apologise that I’m not enough of a man to be worthy of what you’re offering._

“All a joke, then,” Dorian says softly, almost a private thought that escapes without his consent. Then, louder, “There you go, Commander, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I’ll take my leave now, if you don’t mind.”

It’s ruined now - in trying to salvage at least a little of it Cullen has utterly destroyed the one thing that mattered the most to him. But there will be time to dwell on the pain later, when Dorian isn’t hastily descending his ladder in a bid to expose himself to the downpour still mercilessly assaulting Skyhold.

It isn’t even the weather - Dorian has his barriers, and he’s more than capable of reaching the main hall relatively unharmed, Cullen is sure. But Cullen cannot let him go thinking it was all a joke - anything but that. He follows down the ladder.

“Dorian. Dorian, wait. Please.”

There’s a stiffening of the mage’s shoulders at Cullen’s plea but Dorian doesn’t stop until he reaches the locked door. He’d have left by the time Cullen makes it down if not for that, Cullen is sure. The fake cheer on the Altus’ face crushes Cullen’s spirit even further - they had been so far past false pleasantries until just now…

“If you would be so kind as to unlock the door, Commander?”

Cullen looks him square in the eyes, not wanting to leave it like that, amber eyes pleading with gray to _see him_. To understand.

“It was never a joke, Dorian. I promise you, never a joke.”

Dorian looks startled for a moment before closing off again, determined to not let Cullen in.

“That’s quite alright, Commander. The door, if you will?”

“Dorian, please. If you would only listen-”

Whatever is on his face must be revealing enough that Dorian looks less combative for a moment but it doesn’t last.

“Kindly open the door, Commander.”

Cullen feels like he’s keeping Dorian against his will and that thought makes him give up. He moves to the hearth where he left his key and holds it in his hand, hard enough to leave an indent on his palm.

“If you won’t listen then I won’t push. I won’t even blame you. Just… Know that it’s not what you think, and that it pains me more than I will ever be able to express, losing your regard.”

It’s as he holds out his hand that surprise breaks the façade on Dorian’s face for good, puzzlement settling in. The mage exhales, looking weary despite the almost indolent way he leans against the door and declines the key.

“Why then, pray tell, Commander, have you been toying with this for so long if it wasn’t leading anywhere?”

Well. Cullen did plead for the opportunity to explain himself, didn’t he? That he is tongue-tied now, incompetent even in this, is the proof that he doesn’t deserve to keep anything of what he and Dorian shared. And yet, now that he stands at the brink of it, there’s a wild thought that won’t leave him be: if he’s going to lose it either way, then it should at least be worth something.

“I’ll show you,” he murmurs without deciding to, and then the key has fallen from his hand and he’s holding Dorian’s face in both hands as he kisses the mage for the first and what may very well be the last time, and, Maker, it’s so _good_. All the times he’s pictured this moment pale in comparison with the real thing, with Dorian’s moustache tickling his face, with the smell of the rain that still clings to Dorian’s skin long after the actual drops have evaporated, with feeling the other man’s warm body touching his. He expects Dorian will push him away - he has, after all, explained nothing - but for the moment the mage is keen on kissing him back.

Cullen struggles to keep his eyes open, to commit every line that crinkles the corner of Dorian’s eyes to memory, until they’ve closed of their own accord and he’s given into sensation completely. Dorian’s arms encircle his waist as they kiss; it tugs at his heart so fiercely that he has to hold the torrent of emotion through sheer effort of will lest it brings tears to his eyes. And still Dorian just holds him closer.

When this is over, when it’s done, when Dorian finally knows what he is, the memory of this moment will be sweeter than anything he ever shared with Elisabeth, he knows; she never gave so freely of herself as Dorian seems to, unreservedly, with abandon. He wonders if it will break his spirit, then, in a way that losing Elisabeth didn’t quite manage, to see the disgust in Dorian’s eyes.

No.

That will come later - _after_. Right now he has this and he won’t mar it by focusing on what’s yet to pass.

He abandons Dorian’s mouth with tremendous effort and kisses down the mage’s jaw, to his neck, to his exposed shoulder. His hand opens and closes nervously, too close to Dorian’s buckles for the other man to mistake his intent for anything else.

“Allow me, Commander,” Dorian says in his sultry tone, and it shoots straight to Cullen’s groin despite how much he misses the intimate ‘ _Cullen_ ’ from before. Defter and more experienced hands than his open the buckles until Dorian’s contraption of a jacket can be removed, along with his undershirt, and then Cullen’s allowed to kiss down that chest, to worship every bit of naked skin with his mouth, to touch Dorian as he has only dared dream so far.

He feels no inhibition as he drops to his knees and frees Dorian’s rather elegant - Maker, even the man’s cock is elegant! - cock. He already _knows_ he’s no good at this, but he will give as much as he would if he thought he had a chance to learn, only without any added weight from hopeless expectations. He glances up to Dorian’s face - something he has been avoiding ever since he began his downward journey, not wanting to see the disappointment that will surely be there before this is through - in time to see it shift from seductiveness to utter surprise when it becomes clear to the mage just exactly what Cullen is planning on doing with his mouth.

“Commander, what– ngh.” Dorian bites his fist looking almost pained, and that’s the last expression Cullen sees for a while, his neck protesting the position until he allows himself a more natural stance and closes his eyes once more, revelling in the feel and texture of Dorian’s cock in his mouth. It’s been so long since he’s done this, and never before with someone he actually loved. He’s thankful that it wasn’t something Elisabeth requested he did to Blackwall, thankful that this act remains something he’s only ever done out of his own interest; he tries to push away the knowledge that it will more than likely be the last time.

It’s hard not to be saddened by the silence in the room as he redoubles his efforts, alternating between swirling his tongue and taking Dorian deeper in his mouth, using one hand to help, the other to caress his sack; surely if the mage were finding this enjoyable there would be some noise, any sound at all, even an exhale. A second glance up reveals that Dorian maintains that look of near pain, now tempered by what seems to be intense concentration, and is still biting his fist. It suddenly occurs to him that Dorian is focusing as hard as he can on pleasurable memories to be able to endure this. Cullen’s own cock, hard a minute before, flags at the thought, but he perseveres. He will stop when Dorian comes or when Dorian tells him to stop, and not a moment before.

His knees ache but he pays them no mind. Here on his knees, sucking Dorian’s cock, he feels like he’s worshipping Dorian as well as begging forgiveness for putting him through his clumsy attempts in the first place; the reverent supplicant who already knows his prayers won’t be answered.

He closes his eyes again. He desperately needs to stop thinking at all. He isn’t being successful in keeping sadness at bay; he was supposed to take this moment as comfort for later, for _after_ , when he’s alone in the afternoons with no Dorian willing to play chess with him and share an hour of companionship, but he isn’t able to store the hurt elsewhere long enough to enjoy it. It would be more honest if he stopped now, for both of them, but he can’t bring himself to give this up either, not while he still has the illusion of it.

Dorian’s hips jerk and Cullen nearly chokes for a moment - the mage is usually anything but uncoordinated and the movement seems involuntary - but he keeps himself in check and risks a third glance up. The expression is the same but Dorian’s eyes are wide open, as round as Cullen has ever seen them, and the mage’s hips tremble. He’s probably successfully summoned those pleasurable memories and is now close.

“Commander,” Dorian’s voice is a choked whisper, just loud enough to barely reach Cullen’s ears, his fist still hovering close to his mouth, “I’m about to– you will probably want to remove your mouth sooner, rather than later.”

Only Dorian would say something like that, in a near perfect sentence, at a moment like this. But Cullen has no desire to remove his mouth before Dorian comes in it, and the mage hasn’t ordered him to stop. He increases his speed, hoping to elicit at least a groan, but the most he gets out of the other man is a low “have it your way then, Commander,” followed by that eerie, heartbreaking silence as Dorian once again bites his fist.

Dorian comes just as silently. Cullen wonders who Dorian’s partner is, in the mage’s mind, that finally brings him to orgasm. He swallows - the taste of it isn’t something he particularly enjoys, but he has no great dislike for it either, and it would seem almost disrespectful, to spit the product of such a hard won orgasm. He keeps Dorian’s cock in his mouth a little while longer before letting it go, pressing a kiss to it and just leaning his forehead on the other man’s groin for a moment.

Cullen is at half-mast - his failings aren’t overwhelming him enough to prevent that, but the sadness won’t allow for a full blown erection now, either. He already knows this is a memory he will never stroke himself to completion to. It’s over. He kisses Dorian’s now flaccid cock one last time.

_I wish this were a beginning rather than an end. I love you._

That’s the one thing Dorian doesn’t know - will never know. He knows everything else now, how bitterly disappointing Cullen is, how inept - but this Cullen will keep to himself. He doesn’t need to give Dorian further reasons to pity him. He rises to his feet and forces himself to look at Dorian, hoping he at least doesn’t look like Elisabeth did whenever she gave him a chance to do better and he fell short.

He doesn’t. He looks wild, as if what just happened - or whatever he just imagined or revisited in his mind - took an earth-shattering unexpected turn. He’s never seen Dorian this unsettled, and he doesn’t know what he should do to make it better.

It’s only now that Dorian takes his fist from his mouth. There are two semi-circles of indents on his knuckles; by the looks of it, the mage bit almost hard enough to draw blood. The removal of the fist prompts him to action, though, and soon enough Dorian is fully clothed. There could be no clearer sign of his desire to leave.

It’s cruel of Cullen to keep this up, to force the other man to speak up in order to be free from his tower; Dorian doesn’t deserve it, and Cullen is through with keeping mages locked in towers against their will. A quick scan of his floor is enough for him to find the key he dropped earlier, Dorian moving wordlessly aside so he can unlock the door. Cullen feels like he should say something, but he doesn’t know what, and then the moment is gone.

Dorian passes through the threshold and adds a parting shot: “Do take care of that ceiling once the barrier fades, Commander - it’ll make the entire tower inhospitable otherwise.”

It’s such a strange thing to remark on, after what just passed between them, that Cullen can only assume Dorian also feels the need to say something no matter what. The Tevinter mage doesn’t wait for a reply and walks away without another glance while Cullen stands at the door and watches - already soaked through in the still unforgiving rain - Dorian making his way to the main building without even bothering with a barrier.

* * *

Cullen is filled with sorrow but not surprised when, despite the clear weather and his obvious presence in Skyhold, Dorian doesn’t show up for chess the day after that, or the one after. It’s just as well. Taking an hour of every day to himself was a terrible self indulgence when Corypheus is out there and there’s work to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, Cullen completely misread the situation there. There will be one more piece after this - the series is called Broken and _Rebuilt_ , after all, and so far all Cullen's been doing is breaking - although I can't promise when that will be. 
> 
> A few things need crediting:
> 
> \- The line “I don’t enjoy being toyed with. First you’re hot, then you’re cold. If this isn’t leading anywhere just say so. I’m a big boy, I can take it.” is lifted straight from the game. 
> 
> \- Thank you to Julie, who pointed out Dorian would say something flippant on his way out, rather than leaving without a word, no matter how shell-shocked he may be.
> 
> \- There was a prompt in the kmeme a while back where Dorian had never received oral sex because "real men" didn't perform it, although he'd given it plenty of times. I took inspiration for that prompt for his reaction here, even though the motivation isn't the same: in my universe, even oral sex is a power struggle in Tevinter: if you're of higher social standard, you receive; if you're of lower, you give. It's unimaginable for someone of higher standard to go down on their knees before a social inferior. If they had been in Tevinter, Dorian would have expected what Cullen did - Cullen would be a soporati and Dorian an Altus, it would have been clear as day; here in the south in general, and in Skyhold in particular, on the other hand, Dorian is a pariah and Cullen is the Commander of the Inquisition's armies. What transpired makes no sense in Dorian's worldview. 
> 
> As always, reviews feed the soul of any author.


End file.
